


Somewhere Between One Apocalyptic Disaster and the Next

by Englandwouldfall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, M/M, Mark of Cain, Post-Episode: s09e18 Meta Fiction, Sam finally notices, Spoilers for 9.18, relationship introspection, the usual Dean angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:56:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Metatron and Abaddon still very much at large, Sam Winchester is aware that it isn't really the time to be noticing things about the relationship between his brother and a certain angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Between One Apocalyptic Disaster and the Next

**Author's Note:**

> Lot's of spoilers of the 9.18, Meta Fiction. I've been having a lot of feelings about that whole episode. Blah.

They drive back to the bunker in silence. 

Sam tries to start a conversation twice, once about Metatron and once about Abaddon, keeping the lines as strictly business as he can when his gaze is focused on the sharp edges of Dean’s shoulders, worry beginning to settle in his gut. Dean doesn’t register that he’s spoken at all, not even bothering to turn on the radio to drown him out like he usually does when he doesn’t want to talk, but stays silent, tense, eyes narrowed at the road in front. 

_You keep an eye on him._

There’s something wrong with Dean. He’d been pinning it down to Kevin, to the underlying strain in every conversation they’ve been having lately, and anger at how everything’s going to the crapper all over again, like the world just keeps trying to break itself. He hasn’t really been thinking about the Mark of Cain, never really asked Dean what the flipside of it all was (and there had to be one, of course there had to be one, there was always a god damn flip side); he’d followed Dean into his mission of finding the first blade without thinking about what this was going to do them… well, Dean this time, and had let it fall under his radar. 

Cas had noticed immediately. Narrowing his eyes and _there’s something different about you_ and it can’t be good if it’s something Cas can sense out, stolen graze and all, hone in on in one grip of the arm, pushing Dean’s sleeve up, exposing the mark. 

Sam is trying to keep his relationship with Dean out of this. He’s been avoiding discussing anything but research and cases with Dean for weeks, but as a result he’s missed this… and it feels wrong for exactly the reasons Dean quoted at him. Because they’re family, because they’re all they have left, because it’s wrong that Cas should notice that there’s something wrong – really wrong – before Sam had dedicated enough thought to it. 

So, he’s going to talk to Dean. He can try and squash down his anger about Gadreel, about Kevin, about the same fucking trap that Dean always falls into, and demand what the hell is going with his brother. For the sake of the work. 

Dean’s in the bathroom, where, now Sam is thinking about, he’s been spending a lot of time lately. He’s about to take the plunge and wrack his knuckles against the wood when he hears Dean’s voice. He can’t hear what he’s saying, but his voice is low and softer than Sam’s heard in weeks. 

Dean’s been directing everything at him through clipped tones and tight lies about how he’s doing. He’s not… he’s not completely ignorant. He knows Dean’s been drinking again, but he’s been stoutly telling himself that it’s not his business anymore. If Dean wants to take up pickling his liver again then fine, because it’s not like Dean ever listens to him, anyway, and as long as it doesn’t affect the work…the family business. He knows that Dean is angry… at himself, at Sam, at everything but he didn’t… in the myriad of crap and angels and demons, he hadn’t been thinking about the mark. 

Beyond the door, Dean’s voice is turning sharper. 

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean snaps, loud enough that Sam can catch the words, “Stay out of this.” 

Seconds later, Dean is slamming out the bathroom, crushingly tight grip on his phone, and heading for his bedroom. The mark is exposed on his arm (and how has he only just noticed that Dean’s only been wearing long sleeves lately, even around the bunker?) and the skin around it is red and raw, as if Dean’s been scratching at it, trying to rip or wash it off his skin. 

He doesn’t notice Sam. 

And that’s the other thing, Sam thinks, silently stood in the corridor, the thing he feels should have come up on his radar years ago, that’s been swept under the carpet between one apocalyptic disaster and the next. 

_How are you, Dean?_

* 

It had first been bought to his attention by Bobby when he was around nine or ten. 

Dad had disappeared for a couple of weeks longer than he said he would, leaving them (or really just Dean, because Sam had just been a snot nosed kid back then) short on money, food and patience. Dean had said he’d talk to Dad when he got back, tell him that it wasn’t okay, but slipped back into the perfect boy soldier the second their Dad had slammed his way back into their motel room with a story about a werewolf and a duffle bag full of blood soaked shirts. 

So Sam had made a fuss. Dean had told him to stay out of it, that he’d sort it, but the argument had bloomed out of control and next thing he knew they were in South Dakota, Dad slamming out of the front door and hitting the road to kill something, anything, rather than dealing with his family. 

Dean wasn’t talking to him, settling onto the sofa in silence the second Bobby had rustled up something for Dean to eat (and now Sam thinks back on it, he wasn’t sure whether Dean had eaten anything for a couple of days… because there’d only been a couple of packets of potato chips for him yesterday, and Dad hadn’t stopped on the drive to Bobby’s, just clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles, only relaxing when they’d passed the state line). Bobby herded him into the kitchen, giving him one of those looks that goaded him into talking… an open invitation to get his whining off his chest. 

When Sam had got it all out, they’d stood in the doorway to the front room watching Dean watch the TV (and Bobby had told him he should be easier on Dean, on Dad too if he could manage it, because they were doing their best), and Bobby raised his eyebrows and said, “your brother’s got a type.” 

Dean was watching Indiana Jones with rapt attention, pausing only to bring another slice of pizza to his lips. 

Sam had done a stock take of all Dean’s favourite characters… Han Solo, Indiana Jones, cowboys, secret agents; outlaws, superheroes and rebels. They did all fit the same kind of brief: strong macho men with a cause and a lot of fire power. 

He’d glanced up at Bobby and tried to get a read on why Bobby was bringing Dean’s movie preferences up, because Bobby rarely said anything that didn’t have a point, and he had this look like he was trying to make a point about something. Sam hadn’t really got it, then, and Bobby had rolled his eyes and told him to go apologise to his brother, you idjit, and get some of the damn pizza before Dean hoovers it all up. 

A decade later at Stanford, he’d been dragged to this party where he didn’t really fit in because Sam was the biggest freak going and hadn’t really adjusted to normal yet. He fell into a group talking about Star Wars because at least that was something they had in common and, hey, it was better than the last twenty minute discussion of horror films. There was this guy that reminded him of Dean in some ways, just the odd similar moment or comment (and, yeah, mostly that was because he missed Dean), and he’d turned around and said “Hell yeah I’d fuck Han Solo,” 

Sam had tuned out before the talk turned to lightsaber innuendo, because suddenly he was back at Bobby’s, with Bobby’s twist of the lips trying to tell him something. Oh. 

Damn the fact that he hadn’t talked to Dean, let alone Bobby, for over a year he nearly left the party right then and there to call Bobby and ask him. _Is that what you meant, Bobby? Is that why you bought it up? Because you thought that I should know? Because you know that at least I wouldn’t care, whilst Dad…?_

Except he wasn’t sure he could deal with the answer, knew that it would bring up nothing good. And then he was thinking of Dean on his couch watching cowboys shoot at each other, ignoring Sam when he bought up historical inaccuracies and _shut up, Sammy, shit’s getting shot at_ and then he wanted his brother, and he couldn’t have him. 

He’d made his choice. 

* 

_How are you, Dean?_

Sam had never heard Cas talk like that. His voice dropped down into straight up affectionate in a way that made him feel like he shouldn’t be in the room, shouldn’t be witness to the moment. Dean had said something that was typical Dean, used to be the sort of comment that would make him smile or roll his eyes, and Cas’ voice had just _changed._ It was intimate. Much too intimate for a conversation on loud speaker, but then Cas and social clues had never really meshed well. 

Dean had looked at him almost immediately, gauging his reaction. Self-conscious. 

Dean’s return had been forcibly light and non-committal, a clear attempt to bring the conversation back round to Cas as quickly as possible. Sam had watched Dean’s smile at Cas’ comment about the life on the road, though, his throat tightening slightly because, oh God, there was something there… wasn’t there? 

And it was so fucked up, because Dean and Cas had screwed each other over as much as Dean and Sam had… and if Sam couldn’t even stand being Dean’s brother, right now, then what hope in hell did they have of that thing, whatever it was, working out? 

He’d cut across the moment with case talk, because that’s what they were doing at the moment, and he didn’t want to think about the fact that somehow he’d missed that Cas was Dean’s type to the letter for fucking years. 

Castiel, angel of the lord, with the power to smite with a lift of the finger. 

Outlaws, superheroes and rebels. 

Fuck. 

* 

The drive is tense as hell, with the Siren-induced words fizzling around their brains, unspoken about. Dean’s not going to talk about it, Sam knows that, and he doesn’t really want to go into anyway. This is one of those arguments that he can’t see a positive outcome for, so he’d rather just let it fester for now. 

There’d been no reason for Bobby to think to ring up and check the validity of the other FBI guy, Nick Munroe, because it wasn’t like this was the first time they’d run into the feds – hell, there was a phone set up purely for that reason – but there was no denying it had saved their lives. 

Course, there was a reason… because Bobby knew Dean Winchester, knew that Dean Winchester had a type, and had known it since Dean was fifteen. 

Sam hadn’t thought about it, because it was just one of those things he’d accepted that Dean was just never going to address. And hey, he’d figured that maybe Bobby had been wrong and Dean’s love of a tough, rebel with a cause was purely a character thing, not a physical thing. Except, no, because it turned out that _everything Dean ever wanted_ was a guy who admired the Impala, classic rock and strip clubs. 

He stares out the window and resolutely does not make the gay jokes he knows Dean’s been probably been expecting, because he’s not a dick like that and, obviously, Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. 

Vaguely, he wonders with Dean’s ever done anything about it and not mentioned it, or if that’s one of the things that he’s decided isn’t important, ignoring it until the next mission’s done with. 

* 

Sam’s in bed, running over five years of standing too close, talk of profound bonds and every single side of every battle making boyfriend jokes. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed, of course he had, he just hadn’t realised how deep it ran. 

_– the one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you –_

 _–Dean and I do shave a more profound bond –_

 _

– Damn it, Cas, get out of my ass – 

– Cas didn’t make it – 

_

Dean chucked Cas out the bunker for him, in that twisted way of his, because he thought it was the only way to keep Sam safe. The knowledge burns at the back of his throat like it always does when Dean pulls shit like this, because Dean has no right to make these kind of decisions, no right to decide that Sam doesn’t get to die… because they could have shut down hell, no Abaddon and no Crowley, and instead they’re half way to shit creek all over again. 

Kevin was supposed to be out, happy and in college or something, but instead he’s dead. They’ve got a new Queen of hell, a half cured demon as an ally and then there’s this mark on Dean’s arm, and he doesn’t know what the hell it means. 

(He’d accused Dean of not wanting to be alone… but what if Dean wouldn’t have been? What if Dean could have Cas but still picked Sam first? Why did have to be such a god damn martyr about his own happiness?) 

* 

“There’s something different about you.” 

Normally, this is where Dean retreats, backs off, and fobs Sam off with some platitude or other, but he makes a mistake with Cas. He reaches out and claps his shoulder (Dean’s always been tactile, really, and with Sam forcing distance, physical, emotional, between them at every turn it’s not really a surprise that he’s reaching out to touch Cas, because at least there he’s allowed) and Cas is grabbing his arm, forcing up his sleeve. 

_What have you done?_

Dean pulls his arm back like he’s been burned, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with this, doesn’t know what do with this moment. For a horrifying moment they sound like their frigging _married_ but that’s not important, right now, because Cas’ anger is highlighting a much bigger problem; this has consequences and, from the look on Dean’s face, Dean knew it would have consequences. 

Of course he did, because Dean is always so frigging willing to sell his soul to fix their problems. 

Dean’s slamming his way back to the car, away from Cas, away from their problem. 

They drive back to the bunker in silence. 

* 

When Sam steps out of his bedroom the following morning, Dean is already up. 

He’s staring down a stack of folders from the bunker, and the hard glint in his eyes makes Sam think that he’s been at the research for a while. He looks half determined, half despondent, and Sam wants to swallow back this whole damn argument and demand that they hug it out, or at least talk about it. 

Dean doesn’t look up from whatever he’s reading, pulling Ruby’s knife out of the table before slamming it down into the wood again. There’s a rhythm to it that doesn’t falter, even when Sam takes the seat opposite him. 

His phone is lying on top of a pile of books. Sam wonders whether Dean had actually gotten to texting or calling Castiel, or just spent half the night thinking about it. He knows Dean, knows him inside out, and the deadened edge to his eyes suggests not. 

“Dean…” Sam begins, “Maybe you should…” 

“We got a case,” Dean says, interrupting him. “Jody called.” 

Dean’s always been good at diverting him whenever Sam’s about to broach some topic he doesn’t feel like talking about, but a case is a case and, anyway, they’re supposed to be focusing on Abaddon. Metatron. The angels. 

They don’t have time for Dean’s angelic love life crisis, or for Sam to air out the topic of forgiveness, or any of the other brotherly angst that’s been slowing them down for years. Just like they’ve never had time for Sam to mention the fact that he knows Dean has a type and just like Dean’s never had time to deal with that whole thing, at least not to Sam’s knowledge. 

“Right,” Sam says, nodding at he gets his stuff together. 

It’s strictly business and Jody Mills needs their help. 

The rest can wait.


End file.
